


Canis Canem

by metu



Category: Inazuma Eleven
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internal Conflict, M/M, Not Beta Read, Past Character Death, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, i played around with the ages but they're all adults, it's all very vague, it's fantasy but it's middle ages eurocentric kind of fantasy, kazemaru is a prince and fudou a guard, or are they..., sorry about that, the dog is a metaphor, they have a troubled start but it all works in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28721451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metu/pseuds/metu
Summary: Ichirouta wears his hair long.-Two dogs, and their journey.[Written for the Inazuma Eleven Fantasy Week on Twitter, day 3: royalty/thieves & outlaws]
Relationships: Fudou Akio/Kazemaru Ichirouta
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	Canis Canem

**Author's Note:**

> if this sounds insane it's because i am

> _\- Canis canem non est_
> 
> “Dog does not eat dog”, latin locution, used in the figurative sense to mean even criminals do not harm each other.

*

  
  
  


They're sitting in a room in the dark, the only source of light is a rectangular window over the head of the Goddess, it looks like it's coming directly from her, he ponders that maybe it is.

His mother and his aunt say to keep quiet, that they are praying. He's too young to know the reason, his cousin is only a few months older but he seems much more aware of what is happening outside. He says the war is not to be solved by the Goddess's hands, he wants to ask why but he's too scared to speak in the silence of the room.

The Chancellor interrupts their prayer, he walks quietly but he is drawn to him, when he puts a hand behind his head, keeping it upright, a satisfying shudder makes him smile out of pride. 

"It is time," his deep voice says.

His cousin raises his head, he looks worried and he does not understand why.

"Mother?" he asks, doubt steeping into his tone.

"Your mothers will be safe," the Chancellor says.

If he says so, Ichirouta believes him.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Ichirouta wears his hair long.

It is a sign of peace, long hair is difficult to wield during war time, a luxury rarely afforded by those who wish to rule on a county, let alone on a kingdom. Ichirouta does not care for war, nor does he care for his hair, (or a kingdom) but he lets it float idly in the now lukewarm, still water because it provides an unambiguous statement, without the need of neither words nor proclamations. 

He raises one arm, the bath in his quarters is on the smaller side, something unbefitting even of a lesser duke; his father had wanted it to be that way, he said a king should know sobriety before he knows splendor, lest he squanders the richness of his land. Ichirouta understands the thought, besides, in the list of things he does not care about, marble bathtubs and vault ceilings are perhaps somewhere among the top.

When he was younger, he used to fit inside in length. Ichirouta dreamt of drowning at the bottom, water filling his mouth, his lungs, his father’s guards finding him already devoid of soul came morning. Now that he’s grown ( _a man,_ his father would say) the threat does not stand, but there is something that unsettles him, even if he has to crane his knees in order to sit.

"Time’s up," a voice comes from the entrance, breaking him out of his reverie. 

Ichirouta does not move from his position, only turns his neck towards the solid, ajar door made from the wood of the Northern forests. A pale man watches him from his post, standing with crossed arms and a plain expression on his face. 

Fudou Akio had been hired by the King’s Chancellor as head of the royal guard a year prior, he’s as skilled with his sword as he is disrespectful in his regards, and for that reason Ichirouta does not trust him, not fully, not to an extent in which he’d accept him as the only stronghold between him and the assassins that, he does not doubt, must lure in the shadows of the palace. 

"Did my father call for me?" he asks, observing one cut on his forearm.

It’s almost translucent, by now, it won’t be there for long. Ichirouta gets the irony behind their existence.

"The _King_ did not. The Chancellor, however, requires your presence at dinner."

Akio’s boldness angers him. Ichirouta has never been overly proud, but it only takes a word from the man currently looking at him as if he knows no property, and he sees red. He does not scream, or reprimand him for his behaviour with harsh words, he knows Akio will only laugh at him and not even one night in the gutters would solve the problem, so he stands up. 

The water is dirty with the sweat of the day, it doesn’t hold the nice fragrance it had before, and in a lethargic manner, he raises one leg after the other to get out of the bath. He drips on the ground. His warm feet collide with the cold stone of the floor.

Ichirouta walks, naked and damp and with the neck in a long line that does not waver, until he’s in front of Akio, whose gaze follows his eyes.

"Remember your place," he tells him, they are equal in height, but not in rank.

Akio smirks, uncrosses his arms, "And you remember your pants."

Ichirouta scoffs, he moves swiftly in his chambers leaving wet tracks behind him.

As he calls for the attendant, he realises that Akio wears his hair long, too.

The Chancellor is an acute, quick minded man. His father thinks highly of his advice, and Ichirouta has been instructed by him since a young age, because the son of a king must know sobriety, but so does a farmer, and, Ichirouta is aware, farmers just don't become rulers. He used to follow him religiously, he ate out of his hand like a newborn calf and, just like one, he did not realise until the very last moment that he was destined to the slaughterhouse.

Kageyama Reiji has been defined as a pious, overzealous man by the people who do not know him, and cunning and deceiving by those who do. One who would spare the life of a deadly snake from the sharpness of his blade by cutting its fangs, leaving it crippled and useless.

Ichirouta would find his plan foolproof, were he not trained by the same mind who created it, and now they play at the same game.

"You have been sent to kill me," he says, not bothering to turn towards the person currently holding a blade to his back.

The horse he had been feeding, a white mare too spoiled to do anything but light work, looks startled and retreats further in the stables.

The man, he assumes, shifts in his footing. Ichirouta recognises a limp when he hears one, he's been privy to one too many military drills not to know what a badly healed bone does to a man, and then it's easy, to the point that it is also quite offensive, to overbalance the other and steal his sword. 

The man is hooded, face cloaked and hidden by a piece of cloth that poorly conceals his features. An old guard, he does not remember his name or age, but he must have worked in the castle, since these stables are difficult to get to if unfamiliar with the palace and its labyrinthine cartography. 

"What did he offer you?" 

The man turns his head, gulping down on his spit, Ichirouta feels his Adam's apple bob underneath the dull point of the blade. When the man doesn't answer he presses more firmly.

"It is good manners to answer when one poses a question," Ichirouta is only curious.

He wants to know what the price of the Prince's head is. 

There is a look of confusion on the man's face, but as he opens his mouth to speak, an arrow hits him in between the eyes.

Ichirouta raises his gaze, to the guardpost facing the stables, and sees Akio holding a hunter's bow, slowly lowering it to his side. If, by any chance, Ichirouta had stood three steps to the right, the arrow would have pierced through his throat. 

"You're welcome," he says, it's not so far that he has to raise his voice to be heard. 

It is a sloppy attempt at best, even too desperate. Ichirouta gets the idea that perhaps this is only retaliation, but he looks at Akio, who is holding the bow with firm hands, and his precise aim sparing his throat, maybe even purposefully. Kageyama is a masterful strategist and this means _it begins._

There are soldiers flowing in, probably allerted by Akio himself, who turns, then, entering the tower that he knows leads to the guards' quarters. The men around are asking questions, some are praising the new Captian’s skills and Ichirouta, with a barely suppressed grunt, lets the sword fall on the ground.

It is of poor quality, he cannot help but to think there is also an insult hidden behind it.

They sit at a low table to celebrate the Spring equinox. His father is not present and so Kageyama recites the same, over complicated words, hoping for peaceful times in the months to come. 

Ichirouta spots Akio looking at the man with eyes a bit too familiar. 

If only he could read his thoughts.

He gets sent to an avampost in the western marshes. 

Ichirouta knows this is to allow the Chancellor more time, but he cannot object, so he goes, followed by a handful of trusted guards, and Akio, too. 

The weather is too humid and the earth too damp for the harvest to thrive and the people living in the region survive off of the tiny, bland fish they can catch in the shallow water, occasionally trading delicate ornaments made out of bones to the villages in the East, not touched by the sea.

Almost as if mirroring the weather, the men who have been allocated at the avampost are harsh, and generally unpleasant. Ichirouta is there only as a supervisor, to give him experience, Kageyama suggested to the king, who eagerly agreed. 

It means, factually, that he's there to rot, much like the men currently occupying half of the village, but they all look at him like he's another piece of dirt underneath their boots, so he immediately forces them into special training, that really is glorified torture.

Ichirouta participates too, and when the men, lazy because of the nothingness the marshes have to offer, all start to sweat, he continues, not breaking eye contact. And when they collapse under their weight, Ichirouta continues, fast and delicate.

He is not as bulky and muscular as most of the soldiers are, but in the hot, humid weather his lithe body holds for longer; he notices Akio has stopped following the exercises. Ichirouta knows he could go on if only he desired and is mildly irritated by the concept of idle insubordination.

"You shall go, now," he says, slightly out of breath, "And if tomorrow you men feel inclined to act as a flock of untrained sheep, today will seem like Kalends celebrations, am I clear?"

The men raise, one after the other, a monotonous voice answers him and it's not satisfying, it is not as rewarding as he thought it would have been. Ichirouta is not cruel, but sacrifices must be made in order for a king to ascend, and if the men think he's uptight and _mean,_ he will let them believe it.

"That got your breeches in a twist," Akio bounces lightly on his feet, coming closer to him and using the hilt of his sword as a walking cane.

"I don't see how the state of my breeches should concern you," Ichirouta spats.

Akio lets out a grating laugh, "Take it as friendly advice, Your Majesty."

His hair is held back, showing his features so foreign even to Ichirouta who has travelled all across the country. He knows Akio is from the Northern floodplains, where summers are not so different from the damp, spring air of the marshes, but the fact that he does not sweat, or seem to be affected by the ugliness of their surroundings only adds to the previous anger. 

"You are a soldier, not a councillor," _and I don't think of you as a friend,_ he finishes in his head, even though he's not so sure about the faithfulness of the thought.

Akio shrugs, "The ways of the Goddess are infinite," he says, like it should mean something.

Ichirouta cleans his blade from the mud with the hem of his linen shirt, Akio raises one eyebrow, does not say anything further, which is something Ichirouta finds odd.

The next day, when they are out patrolling the edges of the marshes, his horse is foaming at the mouth, and when she falls down, bringing Ichirouta with him, Akio is there to slit her throat, sparing her from suffering.

The timing is all wrong.

Akio eats and sleeps with the other men despite technically being the Captain of the guard. The quarters are few and the space is even less, everything is built out of rotting wood, since the only thing the marshes can offer is clay and low bushes and the stagnant water makes everything, walls included, perspire. 

He looks comfortable in his own skin, Ichirouta assumes the men are afraid of Akio because Akio is not afraid of him, this is his fault, he must admit. It is detrimental to allow this kind of audacity to show, especially when words are that the old king is dying. He must take precautions, trying to avoid rushed decisions, or the small lead ball inside his belly will fully sink and make him go mad. 

Ichirouta also knows that letting Akio, a man hired by Kageyama, run his mouth free is not something that is too wise, Jirou looks at him with his only working eye and he imagines an admonition to be there. 

He stands up, the men do not stop eating and drinking, he knows they would all piss themselves on a normal day, but if he tolerates another insubordination all he’ll end up with will be a maniple of men who will not hold up against any threat.

“This morning,” he starts, the hustle of the voices subsides, “we had to kill one of our horses,” he does not mention the poison, “I do not care about what you do in your free time, but one thing that I thought I made clear yesterday is my despise for people who do not understand respect.” 

A dead horse is not a big inconvenience, not where they are. The one who poisoned evidently had other plans, but he recognises a warning when he sees one.

Ichirouta looks, for as much as he can, at them in their faces. 

They mustn’t be that older than Ichirouta actually is, these men are the sediment that forms at the bottom of the military academy, after all it is unlikely that an enemy would attack from these marshes. 

“Captain Fudou,” he does not shout, for it is improper for a prince, even if he barely feels like one, but Akio raises his eyes, “Perhaps you want to show them what martial discipline should look like.”

He looks at Jirou, who shortly nods. _Be wary,_ he means to say, _do not lose sight of him._

Akio finishes to eat his bread, it is a direct affront to his person, but when he swallows it down with some water he stands up, too.

“Alright, Your Majesty,” it is said with a mocking tone.

It is fine to him, the more Akio stays occupied the less Ichirouta has to worry about his place between his men.

He writes to his friend, for comfort.

Mamoru does not have any royal blood in him, but Ichirouta knows family is not always a matter of lineage and Mamoru, for all that he likes to say he's more muscles than brains, often offers unbiased insight that is difficult to obtain when you hold a place as high as Ichirouta.

(He could ask Akio, who does not hold back his tongue not even when what he says should grant him a lashing, who looks at him in a different way. Ichirouta wakes up drenched in sweat, he swipes his forehead and suffocates the thought before it's fully formed.)

He asks him what should he do. By now it's clear the King does not have much time left, the illness is taking hold of his lungs, his people at the palace say, and even sitting on the benches during the meals is turning out to be an unbearable task for him. Even if he were to get better, there'd be something to consider.

Ichirouta knows this is not Kageyama's doing, not completely at least, but there surely must be a reason behind the quick worsening of his condition. Not being at court becomes more of a challenge than what he would have liked. Frustration builds inside his cranium, this would be easier were they still at court, and he could see the next move on the chessboard. 

It is pointless to wish, Ichirouta hasn't hoped for anything in a long time, so he only washes his face with the water left in his bedside bowl and walks the short distance between his tent and the long lunch room, where some of the men who were doing the early patrol are discussing the best way to hunt a boar.

His old teacher, a white bearded man who only spoke in riddles, taught him how to kill. Quick, fast, with no hesitation. Poison is for the weak, or the cowards. 

Anything that draws out the death is downright cruel. Ichirouta feels like a deer hung from a wire. 

He sits among the men who consider him an outsider, Ichirouta does not blame them, but Jirou is evidently doing his best to show them that respect is something to be earned. They all fall for his wartime stories, huddling closer like chicks to their mother for warmth. 

Akio, even though his distrust hasn't gone away, acts like a perfectly balanced Captain. He guides the soldiers, and only annoys Ichirouta when they eat lunch.

He's clearly trying to do something, Ichirouta controls the post so he knows, unless Akio delivers them in person, that no exchange has been sent to the palace in the capital. 

It is odd, Ichirouta looks at Akio's back, and wonders.

The letter of response arrives when they move outside the keep, to assess the territories around the low trees that grow at the borders of the marshes. The weather is perhaps even less accommodating, hotter and the wind rarely blows but at least the bugs do not bite at night and because of that he can leave the lapels of the tent open, to let the air circulate inside. 

He breaks the sigil with a tiny, sharp knife, under the light of a candle.

Mamoru says to make _allies_ , Ichirouta has spent the last three years of his life, since when he became of age, finding plausible friends that won't turn their back to him. He writes letters to foreign rulers he knows do not conspire with the Chancellor, he visits the borders whenever he can, but Kageyama already suspects this. He is always three steps ahead. What Mamoru is implying, perhaps, is to be unsuspectable. There is a name written in code, Ichirouta does not need to think too hard to translate it.

He gets an idea, an army of barely-soldiers is still better than an army of none.

Ichirouta turns to Akio, who is playing dice with the other men a few strides ahead, using a broken shield as a makeshift table.

Genda does not look too comfortable around him, but Jirou, who is older and has seen the last dregs of the old war, accepts his presence without much saying. 

Akio cheats, it’s easy to see and he does not try to hide it, as he does with most of his personality. He let his hair flow more freely, it has been days since they last took a thorough bath, and cleaner it looks softer, like the fur of a wolf. 

He gets up, and draws the string that let the tent open, he cannot bear the sight longer than that.

They spend the night in different tents, more spread out, Ichirouta knows that isolating himself, in a place as easy to break in as this, will not do much, but some precautions must be taken. 

He does not sleep, the air can be cut through because of the dampness and some perilous thoughts putrefying in his brain like flies on a carcass.

The Chancellor wants him dead, that much is clear. He probably wants it to be done when he is away from court, to avoid suspicions and he wants it done by someone who cannot be tracked down. Akio's face, and the way he proudly stands and confirms his status whenever someone asks him, appear bright behind his closed eyelids. 

Someone who is not related to Kageyama must mean a stranger, an usurper.

He tosses and turns on the cot bed until his skin must look sunburnt. 

The marshes have been abandoned for nearly a century, only old people and older villages still sit on them, like lichen clinging to a stone.

No one would suspect an attack.

He hears the lapels tremble, dawn peeking through the slit of the cloth, but it remains closed and Ichirouta's eyes open.

When he raises, and leaves his tent, Akio is awake and throwing moldy bread to the geese outside, who will probably get killed and turned into stew. 

It does not look poisoned, but then again, a lot of things initially don't.

At the end of the first month, out of two, of his forced removal from court, Ichirouta brings the soldiers to the closest village, which is still half a day away from the barracks. The men all look ecstatic, probably wondering already about the brothel and a warm meal that won’t consist of plain broth and stale bread. Ichirouta, for all his self imposed rigour, understands them.

He arranges a meeting with a lesser noble from around the place, he needs details about the palace, he needs to know how his father is faring, and what the Chancellor plans are. He gives free time to the soldiers, which grants him an excuse, it is not paid leave but the village is so small, Ichirouta figures he will be able to take on himself all the expenses. Akio raises one eyebrow, as if he didn’t expect the permission to be set free, but sometimes it is better to pick the lesser evil and right now, if Akio needs to conspire, so does Ichirouta.

The soldiers, when they hear the news during the morning meal, all cheer, like they just forgot how cruel he was on the first day, but he figures this is what the stick and the carrot must mean to them. 

Akio disappears from his sight, while he sits in the elegant drawing of the baron. He is a frightful man, too scared to stand for himself, Ichirouta is not in the position to refuse any kind of support. He does not trust him, it would be preposterous, but information is information and a man on his side is a man Kageyama doesn't control.

“Please excuse me for the poor hospitality, Your Highness,” he starts as he fussily sits in front of him.

Ichirouta waves his hand, dismisses the thought, “It is fine," he settles on the plump couch.

"I wanted to inquire about the borders," Ichirouta levels his gaze, "Any news?"

The baron blushes, "Oh, nothing but skirmishes, Your Highness, you haven't need to worry!"

A moment passes, "Now that you mention it, though, merchants say some routes have been blocked, in the north-eastern territories…"

This is all he needs to know.

"I see, and how does my father fare?"

"To what I know, Your Highness, he seems stable in his condition, but I must ask, is there a reason for why you have been sent here? I fear our men aren't ready for—

Ichirouta stops him before he can continue, "I am here to supervise, we all know laziness is easy to fall under," he has a complacent smile that puts the baron at ease.

"Well then, I'll offer my support in any way I can."

"Sure," Ichirouta swallows, "It is most appreciated."

Ichirouta calls for Jirou on the second day of nothing happening.

"How are the men?" he asks, looking at old maps of the region. They are probably outdated, but he cannot afford ignorance.

“Tired, Your Highness, but they are settling down with the new rhythms.”

“What about the Captain?”

Jirou shifts, the sword he brings by his side clangs with an annoying sound that he learnt to tune out after the first month of training. 

“I last saw him teaching the younger ones how to fish,” he says.

“A useful skill, indeed. What do you think of him?”

“Sly,” Jirou clears his throat, “I have searched his bed cot but I haven’t found any poison.”

“Mh,” he turns towards the table in the middle of the tent, “I don’t think he’ll actively try to kill me, however—

Ichirouta looks at him, squaring his shoulders, “I have reasons to suspect that we’ll soon be under attack,” _that,_ he muses over, _or Kageyama just wants to drive me insane._

He’s once read of a great king that killed himself because of his paranoia, instilled inside his mind by the constant threat of enemies. Ichirouta tries to calm down the nerves, to prepare for every eventuality one needs an iron will and a clear mind. He reasons, better ready the men than being ambushed.

“What makes you say that?” then, as if forgotten, “Your Highness.”

“I’ve spent enough time playing that bastard’s game to recognise a foul hand when I’ve been dealt one,” he takes the dagger he stuck on the table.

“Best not to raise suspicions in the case we’re being… surveilled. I want the soldiers ready for any occasion.”

“Your Highness- what do you intend to do?”

Ichirouta lets out a shaky breath, “Survive, Jirou.”

They start training the men more seriously, now that the doubt has been planted in Ichirouta’s mind. He asks one of the older ones, a tall man called Oono, to tell them their early regime, and what the former orders were. 

Oono shows him the old arena, the rotting wooden swords and shields, he says the official orders were to guard the trade routes, but there’s a specific kind of bleakness in his eyes that tells Ichirouta that his previous assumptions were correct: these men were destined to decompose with the trees.

“There will be a change of pace,” he says, as he dusts some leather bound books.

Oono curtly nods, “We’ll be ready.”

When he tells Akio about the new regimen, he looks at him funny, unaware. Ichirouta raises one eyebrow.

Now, there’s a thought.

Deeper into the forest, when the plains turn a little steeper, the weather has been gracious enough to grant the soil some respite and the ground is easier to step on. He only meant to ride until he reached the north front of the woods, but the horse, an old thing bought from a farmer, is tired and immediately spots a clearing, with a shallow pond in the middle. 

If he turns he can still see the camp, and what felt like ten minutes on horse are probably only five if one walked briskly enough.

Ichirouta dismounts, leading the animal to the water. It is clearer than the one in the marshes, he remembers visiting a similar place, when he once travelled East with his father, still healthy and full of vigour. He learnt how to swim there, his father said that if he could manage to stay afloat inside a bathtub, a small lake couldn’t be any different.

He holds that memory fondly inside his heart, it is one of the few moments in which he can discern the figure of a father, from the image of a king. Ichirouta feels the warmth of the sun on his shoulders, and closes his eyes to focus on his surroundings.

The stillness of the marshes upsets him, in the hardest nights, the ones so humid it’s barely possible to breathe, he is burdened by the thought of Kageyama, who probably never will let him go back to court, alive. There is fear, nesting deep inside his bones, even if he tries to smother it, it’ll always come back.

“Isn’t it dangerous for a prince to roam alone?”

Akio’s voice interrupts his thoughts.

He turns, slowly. Akio is standing against a tree, munching on an apricot. Considering the weather, and how much apricots are worth, Ichirouta does not doubt that he stole it.

“I could be an ill intentioned person,” Akio smiles, all teeth and no grace. 

“I’m sure you could,” Ichirouta answers, holding the reins tighter in his hand. He sees that the other has two quails hanging from his back, meaning that he went hunting. 

Ichirouta remembers Jirou’s words, _he taught the younger ones._

Akio comes closer, he’s wearing his uniform but the first few buttons of the shirt are left open and Ichirouta can see a red mark, definitely inked, right under his collarbones. _Mutt,_ it means. 

“I heard from Sakuma that you were teaching the younglings how to fish,” he says, looking away.

The brunette’s eyes widen in size, as if for the very first time Ichirouta has been able to genuinely surprise him. He hides the quails better behind his shoulders. It provides little amusement.

“They enlisted when they were children, no one is ever going to teach them how to survive otherwise,” he snarls.

Ichirouta scoffs, “I’m sure you must know something about that.”

Akio grits his jaw, a serious expression on his face that looks borderline manic, “You’re all the same.”

He smiles, really a sad grimace, “Indeed, we all are. No matter where we came from.”

Ichirouta hopes Akio can read between the lines.

When he was younger, green and barely able to hold a sword, Ichirouta used to worship the ground Kageyama walked upon. He would ask his father permission to visit the older man’s chambers, to learn about his work at court.

Kageyama taught him his numbers and letters, how to be stern but not harsh, how to strive for perfection while maintaining power. 

In retrospect, he should have known a child of six would not be of interest to a man unless he had precise intentions.

Ichirouta understands, as he swathes his hands with the bandages he brought with him, that what Kageyama wanted to create, with him, is somewhat of an empty puppet that he could have controlled, and then offed by the time he was no longer needed. 

“Your Majesty needed me?” Akio asks, entering the tent without asking permission.

Ichirouta stands up, throwing on a heavy cloak, it is night and he realises this is more dangerous than worthy but risks must be taken. _Be unsuspectable,_ he reminds himself. If this won’t surprise Kageyama he doesn’t know what will. 

“Dress yourself,” he says, “We’ll spar.” 

Akio, considering the lack of trust and general indisposition in his regards, follows him without saying much.

There is the arena Oono showed him, created by beating down the dirt with some planks of wood, where Jirou and Akio lead the men in the exercises. Most of them are still blissfully unaware, but some of the older ones have started to ask questions and Ichirouta doesn’t know what to tell them. 

Ichirouta leaves the cloak on a bench, he gestures to Akio to follow him. When they stand, in the middle of the patch of dirt, he realises Akio is barely dressed.

“No swords?”

Ichirouta turns to two torches that make the space just bright enough to see, “It is said that to know a man you have to fight him barehanded.”

“And you want to know me for what reason exactly?” Akio gets in position, steadies his footing.

Ichirouta raises one arm, assessing the space they have left in between them. He throws a punch, which Akio stops successfully with his left hand. He tries to make him fall, locking his leg behind Akio’s knee but he gets thrown back with a powerful push.

He manages to fall down without hurting his back, Akio looks smug like a child who received a prize he didn't deserve.

“A prince should know the Captain of his guard,” Ichirouta says, fisting the earth in his hands and throwing it in the other’s eyes.

He misses, but it grants him enough time to stand up again and get back into a defensive position. Ichirouta bites his lower lip, when Akio lets out a laugh from deep inside his belly.

“You want to preserve your honour, prince,” Akio is able to sneak a hand behind his back, yanking his hair and he loses his balance, “But you aren’t different from any fucking blue blood that has ever lived.”

Finally, there is something akin to truthfulness inside his voice. He feels the tip of a blade poke his belly.

“You won’t do it,” Ichirouta knows as much, Akio might have a motive behind what Kageyama told him, but a man hired by the Chancellor killing the crown prince is a considerable dark stain on his reputation.

“You don’t know me,” he hisses, pressing down more firmly.

“I thought I said the purpose of this was to get to know each other.”

Akio bares his teeths, he looks worryingly animalistic, the light of the torches makes his skin look warmer than it normally does during daytime. 

As he predicted, Akio lets him go, shoving him by the shoulders. He puts the knife back into its sheath and falls back on his heels. 

“I am going to say this only once,” Ichirouta starts, “and it is your decision to listen or not, but whatever he told you, whatever he promised, he’s not going to follow through.”

Akio spits on the ground, not looking at him, “It would be easier if you just let him—

“I cannot do that.”

“Because you royals are all the same. You sleep in your quilted beds and you bless the tides when people like me are forced to steal and drown,” he inches closer, Ichirouta thinks this is the most of Akio he’s ever seen, “All you care about is power, and you’re ready to sacrifice each and every living soul, yours included, to maintain it.”

“It is not a matter of power, but in whose hands said power shall fall. Kageyama is a warmongering bastard, and he wishes for an empire,” Ichirouta turns to him.

“Kageyama made a name for himself after his father ruined his own house, by killing and taking what wasn’t his. He promises you greatness in the name of everything that is just and holy, but the only thing he strives for is _more,_ it is never enough for him.”

“He helped me—

“And he raised me, like a father with a son! I used to be his fucking _dog_ , Akio, and when he discovered I wouldn’t let him do as he pleased with me he decided I wasn’t worth keeping,” he takes a breath.

“I did not decide to be born under my father, but I get to choose what kind of person to become,” Ichirouta tries to steady his voice, “You get to choose, too, we all get to choose.”

Akio takes a breath, and leaves.

A week passes, the days do not stop and time does not slow down, Ichirouta feels on the brink of collapse. Jirou leads the men in circles around the area, every time reaching further into the marshes. And every time, when he asks him what they saw, the response is the same. 

Some rice weeders say they often see men riding to the east, where there stands an unused village for miners, the mines have long run dry of ore and Ichirouta knows they’re infested with mercenaries. 

He thinks they are trying to draw them out, he doesn’t have a spectacle of idea of what Kageyama means to do and it scares him more than anything. For all the talk, Ichirouta is barely twenty, and he is terrified of death. 

He tries to make the soldiers trust him, which is not even an encumbering task since most of them are fresh and eager to learn, and after the first impact it is easy to follow and be followed. Ichirouta is not much older than them, neither is Akio nor Jirou, for all that matters, and the older are disillusioned enough not to bother putting up a fight. 

Akio is in a pensive mood, he wanders the camp, he guides a small group of what they have started to call the children, and whenever he looks at Ichirouta his brow crinkles thoughtfully. He doesn’t think they are prepared, but now the men hold their bows with confidence, and the amount of times some of them have successfully unarmed Jirou rises every day.

Ichirouta nerves do not quiet, though, especially when Akio enters his tent with a murderous face. Ichirouta grabs the knife he used to open an unripe apricot but Akio points his fingers to his face and sits down in front of him.

“Are you trying to raid the castle?”

“Excuse me?” the sentence is so outrageous that Ichirouta forgets for a moment that Akio isn’t even supposed to talk to him like that.

 _What difference does it make,_ he asks himself, but the answer doesn’t come.

“Because you’d better tie a noose around your neck if you want to die so badly.”

“I do not intend to _raid_ the castle,” Ichirouta folds his hands in his lap.

“Then why are you making us train these kids,” he says this as if they themselves aren't hardly adults.

Ichirouta’s heart loses one beat, he hears in the distance the crackling of the fire, the laughing of the soldiers, and Akio is looking at him like he’s the dullest person on earth. He swallows, thoughts running wild in his head, Ichirouta puts one hand on the table and turns the map towards the other.

“Do you know… what these are?”

“The routes that lead to the mines far on the mountains,” Akio squints his eyes.

Well, Ichirouta wonders, really, what difference would it make?

“Indeed, and word is we’ll sooner or later be under attack.”

“How do you know?”

“How do you not know? This is Kageyama’s doing,” Ichirouta stands up, reaches for other maps and spreads them out on the small table they managed to fit inside his tent.

“There are mercenary groups occupying the territories, and they won’t trouble themselves with morality if it means getting rewarded.”

Ichirouta wants to ask if it sounds familiar, but Akio genuinely looks confused. Kageyama thinks of them as dogs he trained himself, but perhaps he forgot that even the meekest animal can bite back.

“Akio,” he murmurs, “I need to tell me what you know.”

“You cannot _fight_ in the marshes, you can _hide_ , but the trees are too crowded, it’ll last for days. Besides, you don’t know their numbers- they either get closer or you do and, frankly speaking, you’ll end up pierced through in any case.”

Akio gesticulates towards the maps that Ichirouta hasn’t taken away since the night prior. 

“Then what do you suggest we do?”

“I suggest you fucking flee, Your Royal Majesty, and—

“And?”

Akio turns the biggest chart towards him, it is probably the most updated. He points to somewhere more east than where they are. Ichirouta hums, shifting closer. Akio does not smell good, exactly: his shirt has seen better days, and there’s earth underneath his fingernails, but his skin looks warm, and Ichirouta doesn’t find the sweat glistening on it, clinging to his forehead, abhorrent. 

“They won’t come through the marches, they’ll want this to be done as efficiently as possible. There’s an escarpment here,” he taps twice, like he’s familiar with the environment, “it’s artificial, and with flooding season coming soon the only way back to the castle.”

“He’ll say we’ve been ambushed,” Ichirouta bites his lower lip. 

“This means they can’t be more than twenty or so, it’s narrow and the horses don’t fare well on the crumbly path.”

He crosses his legs and brings one fist to his mouth, his hand is cold and it brings some relief from the heavy air in the tent.

“There’s barely a month left before you return to the palace.”

Ichirouta is beaten down, there are too many possibilities and none of them offer an immediate solution, he wouldn't let desperation show on his face, but regardless of everything, Akio already thinks so much of him. He sighs, he can already hear the noise Kageyama’s boots make on the floors of the castle.

It really wouldn't make a difference. Would it?

He writes another letter, its recipient lives in the West, he sends Jirou as a messenger. He wishes for a quick answer.

Ichirouta stands tall in front of the soldiers, who all look slightly interested in the sudden request of assembly. He gulps down the nervousness, it wouldn’t provide him any advantage.

“I must confess to you all,” his voice rings clear in the openness of the arena, “that I haven’t been frank with you.”

There’s murmuring, but it quickly stops once he raises his arm.

“I was sent here, with all of you, because I was deemed useless and worthless. Chancellor Kageyama wishes to become next in line of succession, and as many of you know, my father is currently unable to rule.”

The men start to look at one another, Akio, standing in one secluded corner, crosses his arms.

“And I have enough reasons to suspect that he also planned for my murder. I will not pretend to understand how you lived before my arrival, as I will not have the arrogance to say that I can relate to any of your struggles, but one thing I can promise is that, if Kageyama rises on the throne, the country shall go to war, and you all will be sent to die on the front.”

He breathes in, “I must ask you to make a hard decision, of which the outcome is aleatory at best: are you willing to fight alongside me, or would you rather rot with the trees in these barracks?”

The silence falls, until a lonely sword rises, and then a second one, followed by a wave of shining metal reflecting on the torches.

Two months might not make an army, but they’re enough for hoping.

  
  
  


Ichirouta does not want to become king, he looks at the men looking at him with sure eyes and the belief sediments itself.

He won't be the king, if everything works for the best.

  
  


The men know the territory like the back of their palms, but more than anything they know its people. It takes place as a wildfire, Ichirouta never was too optimistic about the marshes, he remembers his father’s project of cleansing them, to increase the production, although, now that he’s seen what the people here really are able to do, he has to admit that perhaps in the most festering environments, ideals are able to grow the strongest.

“A detour,” says Akio, interrupting his daydreaming.

They are taking the biggest risk Ichirouta has considered ever since he thought he could outrun a boar. Akio is pointing at the mountains right over the mines, that the people in the village say are inhospitable. Ichirouta sits straighter, tries to pretend he wasn’t lost in thought.

“It’s going to take a while,” he says, so far from court he doesn’t have any reliable mean to know how his father is doing and it worries him.

Akio shrugs, “It’s the safer bet,” he brings one hand to his fringe and pushes the hair back with a reflexive motion. 

“We’ll travel north-west, until we reach the Northern Harbour,” he traces the line, there’s a path travelled by shepherds in the summertime for the transhumance. 

Akio has started saying _we_ instead of _you,_ Ichirouta doesn’t like to think about the implications for too long. They spend most of their evenings in the same tent, planning and discussing the better strategy, meanwhile the soldiers speak with the people, who are tired and whose understanding of Palace’s politics lies within the dry, river bedding that is surrounded by the walls of whether it’ll bring them comfort or not. 

They say avalanches are common and have caused quite the number deaths in the valley in between, Ichirouta thinks it’s only fitting that Kageyama’s alibi will be theirs, too. 

“By the time we arrive, your dog should have delivered the letter.”

“Jirou is not my dog,” he points, with no real heat, he’s too tired to fight.

Akio snorts, but it’s not as felt as before would have been, “You may treat us nicely, Your Majesty, but even if you feed us veal, we’re still your hounds.”

Akio takes one apricot from the basket on the table, used to let one edge of the biggest chart lay flat. 

As he splits it open, juice slides down the ridges of his hand, one scar under his third knuckle.

Ichirouta wonders if they’re tacky to the touch, and immediately leaves the tent.

  
  
  


The ride to the northern path should not be long, but Ichirouta is filled with dread and the atrocious realisation that what he’s doing might really be the premise to his downfall. He looks at Akio, who is instructing the children, out of which the youngest has seen his fifteenth spring last week, and leaving the older men with powerful pats on the back. 

Ichirouta is jealous, but he knows how to live with negative feelings. He only hopes they won’t swallow him before he can spit them out. Genda will be leading the soldiers that came from the north, and are able to walk the dismal route with ease, to locate the mercenaries and get rid of them. An ambush, Kageyama often said an eye for an eye, Ichirouta is only applying the concept to the practice.

If the operation will turn successful, Genda will return to the palace with the Prince’s horse, and some sorrowful news about his ungracious death.

They are both putting a lot of faith in each other, Ichirouta has never dared to hope so much before in his life, as he is doing now. 

“Are you ready, Your Highness?” Genda asks, he has a worried expression, too.

Understandably, considering that he has to travel alone all the way. He’s been with him forever, Ichirouta grew up watching him learn the sword and he knows Koujirou is ready to sacrifice his life to make sure that Ichirouta sits on the throne. He prays this isn’t the case, in every sense.

“We are,” Akio answers for him, mounting his horse.

They’ve packed lightly, some food and enough arrows to hunt a whole legion. Ichirouta nods his consent, and wishes them the best. 

“I hope you know what you are getting yourself into, Your Majesty,” Akio jeers.

Ichirouta, heart at the back of the throat, only spurs his horse.

  
  
  


“It’s useless, overthinking it now,” Akio holds the reins down on his thighs, a dignified rider. 

The horses are tired, it’s almost sunset and they narrowly got out of the rocky mountain path, the trees only now growing taller, to reach the sun easier, making a luscious forest Ichirouta knows to distrust. There’s a village at its foot and he cannot deny the fact that he’s thought about stopping there, but they’re still too close and the fear hasn’t settled yet.

“I am not overthinking,” he replies, not looking at Akio.

He hears him guffaw, leading the horse forward. He stands straight, his hips work with the animal and there’s a sort of unconscious grace to his movements, inherent in those who have a good understanding of their bodies. Ichirouta knows this is uncharted territory for him, and Akio perpetually looks like a hunter counting his prey, but the itch in his throat won’t stop.

“I find that hard to believe, Your Majesty,” Akio turns his head, childish mirth on his face. 

“Whatever has happened, you are alive now, if you want to keep it that way I suggest you concentrate on the present and not on its many possibilities,” he finishes, pulling on the reins to make the horse slow down. 

The villagers said the road was full of makeshift shelters the shepherds use on the way up to the greener pastures, they are following the path until they reach the neighbouring valley and then, Ichirouta sends a thought to the sky, they’ll ride for the Northern Harbour.

Akio pats the horse’s neck with fondness as he dismounts, which makes Ichirouta wonder.

“Were you actually hired to kill me?”

Akio raises one eyebrow in disbelief. He has a proud nose, and full lips, Ichirouta thinks _one crisis at a time,_ and jumps down from the saddle, hurting his shins.

“It’s a honest question,” he tries not to let the hurt show in his voice.

“I was not,” they tie the bridles to a low branch, “Kageyama asked me to supervise and report back, no mention of murdering,” _or saving you twice,_ is gratefully left unsaid.

Ichirouta nods, “Thank you,” he takes the pack with the few dried meats they have brought and holds it open for Akio.

“Do not thank me,” he grabs something, “thank the ineptitude of your assassins.”

  
  
  
  


They ride for a whole day without any break, if not very short ones to let the horses rest away from the midday sun that on the mountains is stronger. Dinner time, they spend on the river of a small brook Ichirouta knows is an emissary of the great lake. He feels strangely close to the sky, one touch and the Thunder Goddess could very well grab his hand and show him the way home.

He is not a devoted believer, in a place as corrupted as the court, religion is merely an affection some nobles like to participate in, and nothing more. Perhaps his tribulations are a result of that.

He spots Akio pensively glancing at one shrine, built out of wood and rocks, juxtaposed to look like a miniature of a temple, on the other side of the river, where another road forks, leading deeper into the forest. 

Ichirouta tries to stop his tongue, but the tiredness lingering on his bones and the slow murmur of the water leave him powerless in front of the hardest sin of his, which is curiosity.

“Do you observe?”

Akio lifts his eyes from the piece of flint he was trying to light with his short knife, Ichirouta recognises it as the one he pushed against his stomach almost two weeks prior.

“Do I look like a Goddess-fearing peasant?” he says that, yet there’s an undertone of wily pessimism that leaves more to the ears than to the eye.

Finally the sparks catch on the dry weeds. Ichirouta feels his cheeks redden under the attention.

When they sit closer to the fire, horses already asleep after a long day, Akio starts with “My mother,” he gnaws at the meat like a famished creature, “used to serve at the temple in the north.”

The implications of a pregnant priestess are enough for Ichirouta to only nod, and leave the subject alone. 

“We’ll need to stand guard more often once we reach the valley,” Ichirouta says, instead.

Akio snorts, “I appreciate the thoughtfulness, Your Majesty.”

Perhaps it’s the warmth of the fire, but the title doesn’t seem as bitter as it did before.

  
  
  


Rain surprises them on the third day of incessant riding. Akio doesn’t seem too bothered, he only raises the hood of his cloak and keeps the hold on the bridles tight. They have started the low descent towards the western valley and the unevenness of the slope is too much for the horses to safely carry them, so they have resorted to walking. 

Ichirouta, for all he tries not to sound like a spoiled prince, finds their current situation insufferable. He keeps pushing his hair back, it flies in his face because it is too long, and the moment he thinks he has a grip on the ground, he slips on the wet rocks laid down on the path. 

“We cannot stop here,” Akio says, shouting over the roar of the rain.

“I did not ask you to stop,” Ichirouta says, perhaps a bit too proudly.

He cannot see Akio roll his eyes, but he imagines that’s what he is doing under the dark cloak. 

“You will puke your guts out if you keep all that conceitedness inside, princeling,” Akio says, brazen.

“I hope you’ll hold my hair back, then.”

It takes him a while to figure out they are jesting. The warm spring rain stroking his skin feels oddly reinvigorating. 

  
  
  


Akio does not get easier to talk to, and if Ichirouta has to be honest with himself neither does he. There is something fundamentally jarring in their own personalities that clashes with a vehement clangour, throwing the previous, if not friendly, at least congenial conversations away. At the end of the day, they are too similar to fit perfectly together.

“What will you do,” Akio says, not looking up from the bread the innkeeper has sold them for a measly two copper coins, “when you reach the Northern Harbour?”

Ichirouta shifts on the wooden bench, he did not think there could be anything more uncomfortable than the ones at the barracks in the marshes, but these are made out of what appears to be living wood, just one log irregularly cut to look like what the idea of a bench in a toddler’s mind would look like, and sitting still proves to be an incredibly difficult task.

He hesitates, after all, they’re not exactly accomplices. Akio seems to detect his doubt, and he scoffs.

“If I was going to kill you, I would have done it when you were naked in your bathtub, Your Majesty.”

It’s starting to sound like an endearment, Ichirouta feels the need to change the subject of conversation.

“I’ll go back to court and hopefully I’ll finish what he started,” he grabs a piece of bread in front of Akio, “You are free to do as you please, I won’t summon the council for your case, if that’s what you were wondering about.”

Akio, busy immersing small chunks of bread in his soup, which actually looks more like dirty water, raises his head. His forehead is furrowed, he’s hunching forward and without the cloak and the light armor he looks, Ichirouta gulps down, smaller. Pretty, in a sort of frustrating way.

“Are you going to kill him?”

“This is not a conversation we should be having in a tavern—

“Are you?”

Ichirouta lets out a breath, he looks away and clenches his fist, “I want his limbs buried in the four corners of the earth, and his head on a pike left to rot in front of the castle.”

Akio sniffs once and for a moment. Ichirouta thinks he spoke too soon, taking too much confidence, but then the other swallows the last spoonful of soup and, after licking his lips, extends his hand. 

“What a coincidence,” he says, smiling in that awful way of his, “so do I.”

When Ichirouta takes his hand, he’s surprised by its warmth.

  
  
  


There are few villages on their ways to the Northern Harbour, and most of them are big and very well connected to the capital so they steer away from those and resort to sleep outside and, on rare occasions, in the inns they deem the safest. Coin is not a problem, until it is. Ichirouta announces they’ve finished almost all of their fundings as they are walking down a hillside. 

The wind blows in their faces and if he closes his eyes he can pretend to feel the lackluster briny smell of the sea, except the only thing he sees on the horizon is more hills, the sporadic farmhouse and some wild horses roaming free.

“We’ll have to camp until we reach the Northern Harbour,” is what he says, thinking Akio would agree without trying to counter the statement.

He should have known that Akio simply does not _just agree_ to anything. His temperament is way too tumultuous to accept what is said to him without offering a snarky remark, so he raises one eyebrow and nudges his horse to one road that leads further down the slope.

“Have you ever been fishing, prince?”

Ichirouta tries to comprehend what the hidden meaning must be, but he just shakes his head, “I do not know what you mean, and I fear you are suggesting something we’ll regret.”

Akio only smiles. Ichirouta blames the flutter of his heart to the hunger he feels. Even to his own ears, it sounds ridiculous.

  
  
  


Fishing meant stealing, Ichirouta realises, as Akio tells him to look out for their horses, tied to a pole in the middle of a square he is pretty sure was used for hangings. There are children running around, chasing a ball made of cloth and their laughter reminds him of older days with lesser responsibilities. 

Even if the town is far from the capital, he keeps his hood raised, just enough to cover his hair and not seem too suspicious. 

“I hope you’re better at this than you are at cheating at dice,” Ichirouta says, when Akio disrobes.

“Won’t you tell me how stealing is immoral and that I’m making the Goddess weep?”

Ichirouta shifts his weight from one foot to the other, “Should I?”

“No,” Akio answers, calling over one young boy, gangly limbs and short, choppy hair bleached by the sun, “Two gold coins if when I get back our horses are still here,” he tells the kid, who opens his eyes so wide Ichirouta thinks they’re about to fall out of his head.

“Two?”

“I’ll make ‘em three if no one knows we’ve been here,” Akio smirks and the kid accepts, vehemently shaking his hand.

Ichirouta follows him, after they’ve made the deal, “You’re awfully confident,” he jabs.

Akio leads them to a swarming road, bustling with busy people shouting and throwing prices over their heads. It’s narrow, but the white face of the buildings reflects the sun, lighting everything up and making the confined marketplace appear bigger. A plump woman nearly hits him in the head with a wooden box full of fish, he dodges it just in time to hear a fast, accented _sorry._ Akio turns to him with an annoyed look, but it’s mostly fond and it is almost as scary as whatever awaits them once this childish fantasy of an adventure will end.

In all his life, Ichirouta has never been so close to the sun.

Akio grabs his wrist, and drags him all the way to a dark alleyway that smells like blood and decomposition. It’s even narrower than the previous road, they hide behind the entryway to what must be a fishmonger judging by the head of a fish Ichirouta practically steps on.

“I’m good at what I do,” Akio smirks, pressing him against a wall. In this position they can see everyone walking in the market, while going unnoticed.

“You better be,” Ichirouta pushes him slightly, “Because I can accept you combutting with Kageyama, but not the stink of fish in my hair following me for a week.”

Akio, stunned for a moment, laughs so loudly one bird, occupied with some offals, flies away. 

Ichirouta, and by now he has lost count of how many times it has been, feels his heart in his throat.

  
  
  


Akio is a good actor, a bad swindler and a worse thief. 

Most of all, even if he has managed to last for a whole week of deathly calisthenics, he’s not very fast. He has grabbed a coin purse from a man he bumped into, pretending to know him and for a while Ichirouta believed it worked, but the man quickly noticed the lack of money and, shouting, he started running after them.

Ichirouta has never once in his life imagined that he would have to run away from someone chasing him because he stole their money, even considering that he wasn’t the one who actually took it, but the painful shot of adrenaline rushing inside of his body is enough to stop questioning his choices and just start running. 

Akio stops once, in the middle of the road, looking around him with a grin as wide as his whole face, Ichirouta cannot believe how stupid he is being, so he gets closer and snatches the silken bag from his hands.

“Are you trying to get caught?” he mutters, grabbing Akio’s wrist like he did before, and he pulls him towards what he thinks he remembers being the direction they came from.

“It’s better if there’s a bit of a chase,” Akio says, following him.

Ichirouta thinks it would only be fitting, if everything went down because Akio wanted to pull a stunt like this, his father on his deathbed and Genda hopefully waiting for a jailed prince, the thought is so absurd a small smile worms its way on his face.

“Fuck, you’re fast,” Akio holds his spleen, panting when they reach the horses. 

The kid is still there, which at least reduces Ichirouta’s worries to a degree where he can keep thinking without being completely paralysed. He rummages through the bag and gives him four golden coins, for good measure. 

He mounts the horse with as much grace as he can, while Akio doesn’t bother with seeming dignified.

“Was this necessary?”

Akio snorts, leading the horse further, the morning sun shines brighter in the open square, they enter the road less taken, where some carts full of vegetables are currently resting. It leads further away from the city.

“Money goes a long way, besides I don’t know how you royals swing in that palace of yours, but I recall you liking hot baths, and my hair is getting matted,” he adds at the end, trying to cover the fact that he seemed to do something _for_ Ichirouta and wonders what this will take them to.

He’s grown so accustomed to Akio’s presence, in its discordant and harsh temperaments, that it sounds ludicrous to think that he’ll go away. 

Akio turns to him, the more they ride away from the city and its hum the more Ichirouta can hear the cries of the seagull, can smell the salty water from afar.

He looks softer, under the sea breeze. Ichirouta knows.  
  
  


There’s a shrine on the way to the Northern Harbour. 

The hills turn steeper, the trees sparser, until everything becomes cliffs of white limestone, too crumbly to use as construction material, but pliable enough to carve into. Ichirouta has been here, before, mostly for diplomacy reasons, but there’s something that compels him to speak.

“Would you mind,” he stops, because the thought of a prince asking for permission to someone conspiring with an usurper ( _he did not conspire,_ a voice supplies for him, _he was used, just like you were, just like_ he _was before you_ ) is incongruous but he continues, since Akio has turned to him, he clears his voice.

“Would you mind— if we were to stop by the shrine?”

Akio looks at him like Ichirouta has grown two heads, but then only offers a non committal shrug.

“If Your Majesty desires it,” he says, Ichirouta lets out a breath.

He cannot help but think that Akio would have made fun of him had they had this conversation before.

The road is clear of people, it is not time of pilgrimage and the shrine sits mostly empty of ministers, and if Ichirouta had a lighter heart and a less troublesome task he would have enjoyed the short ride, but the quicksilver in his throat is stuck at the middle, and it’s quickly expanding all over his entrails, coating his body.

The tall statue is inside a naturally formed basin that nearly closes on itself forming a shielded environment from the outside. The wind is stronger though, it runs in circles around the tall white walls and creates haunting sounds that are said to be the Goddess’s own thoughts. 

Ichirouta jumps down from his horse; leaving her unattended is not a problem here, she immediately starts to eat the fresh grass, and so does Akio’s. He looks around, raises his eyes until they hurt too much from the light. When he hears Akio’s delicate footsteps behind him, he turns toward the statue.

The tide cannot reach here, but the ground retains rainwater and to get closer to the Goddess one has to walk into a depthless body of water, Ichirouta takes off his boots.

“Are you familiar with the rites?”

Akio exhales, “I was raised in a temple,” which, for once, answers the question.

“Then you are also aware of what soldiers do when it is war time,” Ichirouta can see him out of the corner of his eye.

They stayed in an inn, overnight, one that served fresh meat and had bathtubs, not as big as the ones in the castle, but the water was warm and the olive scented soap felt like a blessing on their skin. Akio’s hair smells of fresh linen, his face clean from the grim of the journey. It was not a purgative ablution, but Ichirouta figures this is all they can afford.

“They cut their hair, and fast for three days,” he whispers.

Ichirouta turns to him, unsheathes his knife. 

“Akio,” he turns to him, hands him the hilt, goes down in front of the statue, in the middle of the water. He falls on his knees like a limp sack of jute, left forgotten after emptied of its insides. 

Akio looks at him with deep eyes, the rosy skin of his face turns a sickly green and as he takes the knife, he steps behind him. It feels redundant, Akio with a blade in close proximity to his body, yet there’s gentleness in the way he methodically parts his hair, deft fingers waving through it.

His hands are warm, like Ichirouta remembers, he pushes back his fringe and slowly bows down, until their eyes meet lopsidedly. Ichirouta offers a small nod and Akio exhales, straightening his head.

The hair is thrown in the pond at the feet of the Thunder Goddess, who stands with her hands protruding in the pilgrims direction. Sometimes, Ichirouta thinks the people forget she’s a fighter before she’s a healer. They are asking too much of her, he gulps, it feels blasphemous and holy at the same time.

He keeps at bay the tears, it is only hair, but then Akio moves forward, a solemn expression and the determination of someone who has nothing to lose settled in the lines of his cheekbones. 

He starts performing the blessing, the one they give to parting soldiers, in the old language, lilting tone and focused eyes and Ichirouta’s own prickle with the desperation of the act. Akio's voice does not waver, nor does it stop, it keeps on going with the same, quiet inflection the ministers have when they recite the rites. When it is morning, and there’s a wake and the world is just quiet enough that it would be a sin to break its silence.

Akio kneels with him, and crosses his arms at the sides, in a prayerful respect Ichirouta has never seen in anyone from the Capital, not even in the most faithful believers. 

He closes his eyes and lets the words wash over him as he leans forward, and submerges his forehead in the clean water of the shrine. It is the same act Kageyama did to him when he became of age, to consecrate him to the Goddess, to make a king out of him. Akio wets his hands, washes the knife, and finishes the chant.

Today, they pray. Tomorrow, they sail for war.

  
  
  


Jirou waits for them by the wharf, his cloak does not bear the royal insignia but it shines black and blue under the daylight, and his hair is held back by a low ponytail. Ichirouta notices he cut his own, too.

“Did you find him?” Ichirouta asks, Akio is behind him and he doesn’t speak, he doesn’t even get closer.

Jirou nods, he turns his head towards one of the smallest boats, Ichirouta recognizes the craftsmanship and knows it is made to travel fast, and silently. 

“Did he agree?” 

Another nod, Jirou moves his feet, the sound of the waves hitting the rocks of the Northern Harbour, and the continuous mass of people coming and going hides their static figures. 

“His price?” 

“He said he wanted to discuss it with you, Your Highness,” Jirou finally speaks. 

Ichirouta swallows around his words, and walks towards the boat. Before entering he turns to Akio, who is still standing there, hood hiding most of his face. 

He nods, and Ichirouta enters the boat.

  
  
  


They spend the rest of the day in an inn, paid with the stolen coins, which are enough to afford the three of them, Jirou included, a room for each.

From the Northern Harbour, it is a matter of half a day of sailing before they can reach the Capital, built inside a gulf not so different from this. Ichirouta sits in front of a silver mirror, there are stains of old age and it reflects his imagine poorly, but he’s still there, as deformed as he thinks he should look. 

The short hair feels alien to him, Akio did a good job for having to cut it with a knife he’s sure was not as sharp as it should have been. It is shorter at the back, just reaching the tip of his ears on the sides, the tuft of hair that kept on going in his eye is gone. He touches his forehead, the slope of his nose, traces the scar on the temple he made when he was fourteen and preoccupied with impressing his instructor.

A knock on the heavy door interrupts him from his commiseration. He sits up, grabs the same knife that was sitting on the table next to the window, because it is better to be safe than sorry.

Akio is behind the door, Ichirouta forgets how he looks without the cloak and the armor, probably to protect his own sanity, but he’s standing there with the brown, soft pants and his loose blouse that must have been white eons ago, it’s sleeves frayed at the edges. 

He moves away from the entrance and Akio steps in, stands in front of him so close Ichirouta can count his eyelashes.

“I need you to tell me,” he begins, “what exactly will happen when we reach the castle.”

Ichirouta lowers the knife, he sniffs once, he doesn’t even know why, and begins to tell him the story of another boy, that has grown under Kageyama’s own hand before he was, but that was smart enough and strong enough and favoured by the Goddess enough to run away, to a safer place. There’s a hint of doubt on his face, like this is any of those fables and myths and liturgies they spiel over the bodies of dead infants to bless them for their journeys in the arms of the Gods.

 _Imagine a boy,_ he tells him, and the story rings painful in their ears, to them, who relied too much on Kageyama to be able to be set free, this boy could mean something different. He mentions a father and two mothers, killed with an excuse, the boy exiled. He says _he's living in a holy land,_ he admits of being too proud to ask for help, but illness and death are matters Kageyama deals liberally and Ichirouta won't be enough of a king, but he also won't give Kageyama the satisfaction of an easy win. He wets his lips. 

Akio sits down on his bed as Ichirouta keeps on talking, and the darkness quickly falls. No one bothers to light a candle. 

The look Akio gives him when he finishes talking is poignant and a punctuation mark to Ichirouta's journey, he thinks he could reach for his face, and hold his cheek to see if his skin is as soft as it looks, (what difference would it make?). Akio shakes his head, he knows, too. He takes his hand, time tastes differently when you weigh it correctly, and the story of how he came to know Kageyama’s touch on his own forehead is perhaps even more deafening than what he just told him.

That night, they sleep together.

  
  
  


“Are you sure he won’t kill us the moment we set foot in the castle?” Akio asks, crossing his arms.

The other boy ( _man_ , Ichirouta corrects) turns to him, his eyes are hidden behind a veil, he knows it’s common for those who take vows, as are the robes he’s dressing. He’s taller than the two of them, his voice more soothing; Ichirouta would feel rancor for him, were he younger and less scared, more alone. 

“If there’s one thing I know about him,” he mutters, “is that Kageyama is a very proud man.”

Akio finds the answer cryptic enough not to bother staying with them anymore, he leaves the tiny cabin with a gruff sound, but he touches Ichirouta’s shoulders on his way out; it speaks clear in his mind.

He’ll have time to catch up later, he prays.

  
  
  
  


The castle can be seen miles away, and so can be the black banners, hanged from its pinnacles. Ichirouta looks away, he bites his tongue so hard he tastes copper in his mouth and Akio steps by his side, pushing the cloak on his shoulders and yanking him in his direction.

“We end this today,” he says, grabbing his face, covering his ears with his hands.

Ichirouta nods, “If we don’t—

“I’ll kill you myself if you say it now,” Akio presses down his fingers, until it almost hurts. 

Ichirouta’s breath feels drawn short, he only gulps down hair but the oxygen refuses to follow the path to his lungs, preferring to stay in the middle of his thorax. Akio shakes him, a bit violently but it gets the job done and he exhales, finally.

“He raised two dogs,” Akio says, levelling voice and forehead almost hitting his, “we’ll tear his body apart, teeth and claws.”

He nods, teeth and claws.

“And then,” Akio’s thumb does this funny thing, where it follows the same path his fingers were tracing the day before, “you can tell me. And I’ll listen.”

Another shadow joins them at the prow, “We’ve docked,” he says.

They make it past the moat, and then some more.

“Kageyama Reiji,” Ichirouta declares, as he enters the throne room. The surprised look Kageyama throws at him is barely the parody of one. There are other few people, two guards that draw their short swords and some of the Council members Ichirouta recognizes.

"The prince lives," Kageyama says, but it's a complacent chuckle.

What really makes him stand up, and step down the dais, is Akio behind him, and the other pair of feet walking the short distance from the entrance to the middle of the room.

“Yuuto,” Kageyama says, straightening his back. Ichirouta tastes the incongruity of the dark colours of his clothes ( _mourning,_ he thinks, but now is not the time) with the satisfaction on his face.

He unsheathes his own sword, it's heavy and Ichirouta recognizes it as his father's. 

“Out of them, you are my best creation,” he continues, and when he gets too close, Kidou raises his own blade, marked upon with the bearing of the Goddess. _Shuuya,_ he had said on the boat, _you'll have to meet him_. Ichirouta only hopes they'll make it out alive.

“It would be _best_ to admit your defeat, Kageyama,” Yuuto says, while Akio and Ichirouta disarm the guards and close the doors.

The people in the room start to whisper, voices of the old bloodline, of the war long gone. A man comes forth, he says a jury should be summoned but the Chancellor only waves his hand, dismissing the intention.

Kageyama’s stubbornness, even inside a room of doubt, is asinine, “I imagine the young prince has called for your help, I should have killed you when you started conspiring with that boy. Tell me, Yuuto,” he does not seem bothered by the blade currently in his face, “Weren’t your mother and your father enough? Is that what you wish for, vengeance?”

“What I desire is none of your concern,” Yuuto moves the blade so quickly Ichirouta can see why it is so special to him, “whatever you say, you have already lost.”

“You are not the king of this country, boy,” Kageyama’s voice resonates in the empty room, “and that spineless mongrel could have never become the leader it needs. I could have made you great, I could have proven that perfection exists, in the eye of the Goddess, but you,” he turns back to Yuuto, whose hands have not wavered since, “You do not hold any power in here, and you never will.”

Ichirouta steps forward, “You’re wrong,” the tension from his bones releases, Akio holds his wrist but he lets him go once Ichirouta speaks.

“Yuuto has a claim to the throne,” he says, taking a deep breath.

Akio mutters a _what_ and Kageyama, for once, looks like words are failing him. 

“You think killing my mother would get rid of the problem, but you are not as close to the Goddess as you think you are, and raising a wolf does not change its nature.”

“Are you saying you’re a wolf, Ichirouta? Did you not conspire with an enemy of the royal court?” he glances at Yuuto.

Ichirouta gets closer, and closer, until he stands in light and hits him, that for once, the pawns he's let Kageyama eat from his side weren't mere sacrifices.

“I’m saying the royal law is clear, and it says that a son of the king, or a son of the king out of wedlock if the former is unable to reign or absent, can take the throne. If,” there are shouts from the outside, Kageyama stands still and Ichirouta could swear the commotion is all in his head, “both fail to ascend, someone that has married into the family, or their child, is next in line. Yuuto’s father married my mother’s sister, not even their deaths can erase that.”

"He's right," says one of the Council elders, "but Your Highness is alive and well, until we—

"He's abdicating, you daft cunt," Akio spats, he sounds like he does not believe it himself.

He draws his sword, too, when Kageyama smiles, "You've gotten smarter, Ichirouta," he says, when he looks at Yuuto he inclines his head, opens his arms in a welcoming motion, "Either way, my legacy will continue."

Kageyama’s chest deflates, “See,” he turns to Kidou, whose expression does not show any inflection, with an awful smile, “I still win.”

He plunges into Yuuto’s sword, Ichirouta averts his eyes.

A flood of people finally enters the throne obscuring his sight, Kageyama and Ichirouta are no more. 

He hopes Yuuto's age will bring the light back.

Akio drags him all the way to a secluded corridor, and shoves him against the wall and holds his head in his hand and then they’re breathing into each other in the relative quietness of a place so hidden not even Ichirouta was fully aware it existed in the palace. 

“I cannot believe you’ve been hiding that for so long,” he says, smoothing out his hair and gently shaking Ichirouta’s head.

“Unlike you,” he smiles, “I do not show all my tricks at once,” outside of the castle people are still unaware of what has just happened, Ichirouta finds he does not care about the future, for now Akio’s face so close to his is more important.

He bites down on his bottom lip, drawing his eyebrows and lifting his right hand. It hovers awkwardly next to Akio’s side, he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch.

“I told you I’d listen,” Akio says.

Ichirouta kisses him. They bump their noses, at first, Akio moves his head to the side, allowing for more room and a less uncoordinated position. Ichirouta aches for more. Akio’s hands fall on the soft part of his back, push him flush against the uneven blocks of the walls and slither their way across the front, pulling at the laces of the shirt; not completely undoing them, just enough to move the shirt aside, and touch him against his stomach, under his ribs, pressing down so hard Ichirouta hopes he’ll see a mark where his digits have been, when tomorrow he’ll have to dress.

His knees have little purchase slotted in between Akio’s, he tries to respond to the touches but this is something completely unknown to him and Ichirouta knows a lot of things, he knows three languages and knows his body and knows how much he has to press to slit a man’s throat but careful touches and love are not something he can improvise through.

“This is not warfare,” Akio breaks the kiss, hands still on his ribs, just shy of reaching his heart.

Ichirouta thinks _just rip it, it’s yours,_ but that would be counterproductive. 

“It might as well be, to me,” the tendons in Akio’s neck are tense, he touches it to feel his muscles contract when he swallows. 

He puts his thumb on his pulse point, feels it as fast-paced as his own.

“So there’s something you’re not good with, Your Majesty,” he says, nudging his nose and kissing down his jaw. 

His fingers make their way to Ichirouta’s back, while his own just stay limp at Akio’s side, his brain feels powerless, overused. In just one minute of kissing (or has it been an hour, he can’t tell) Akio has managed to make him forget how to speak.

“Ichirouta,” he hugs Akio, so tight he could break his own spine with the force of it.

Before Akio even poses the question he says, “I’m not the prince, anymore. Only Ichirouta.”

Akio gently frees himself from his hold, his cheeks are starting to get redder and he knows he must look the same.

“All right, then, Ichirouta,” he licks his lips, “you still haven’t told me.”

Ichirouta is not worried, he’s not scared, even though he would have all the rights to be, but everything has happened over the course of a week, he thinks the Goddess must have listened to them.

“I want to- I,” Ichirouta has to kiss him again, because Akio grins when he hears him stutter.

“Poor thing, let's do as I say, for once,” he squeezes his waist, “I want a hot bath,” another kiss on his Adam’s apple, “I want to spend a whole day on the biggest down bed available, with you under the covers. Possibly naked,” Ichirouta lets out a laugh that must sound hysteric, his brain is completely melted.

“And then,” his voice turns softer, “I want to see your hair grow back, longer than before.”

“My hair grows slowly,” he’s not even sure he’s speaking out loud.

“That is fine,” Akio leaves another kiss, one that seals a deal, Ichirouta is well past the point of caring about his conceptions of the current world making sense.

“I plan on sticking around for a very long time.”

  
  
  
  



End file.
